ranged from twelve to fifteen; Irving sat at a desk on the platform and surveyed them while they worked, or tiptoed down the aisle in response to an appeal from some uplifted hand.

He had come so recently from examination-rooms where he had been one of the pupils that this experience exhilarated him; it conferred upon him an authority that he enjoyed. He liked to be addressed by these nice-mannered young boys as “sir,” and to be recognized by them so unquestioningly as a person to whom deference must be shown. Altogether this first day with the new boys inspired him with confidence, and at the end of it he attacked the pile of examination books enthusiastically.

Mr. Barclay aided him in that task; Mr. Barclay was a young master also, comparatively, though he had had several years’ experience. Irving was attracted to him at once, and was grateful for the way in which he made suggestions when there was some uncertainty as to how a boy should be graded.

Irving liked, too, the genial chuckle which preceded an invitation to inspect some candidate’s egregious blunder; Irving would read and smile quietly, unaware that Barclay was watching him and wondering how appreciative he might be of the ludicrous.

Two nights Irving spent all alone in the Sixth Form dormitory; it amused him to walk up and down the corridors with the list of those to whom rooms there had been assigned. “Collingwood, Westby, Scarborough, Morrill, Anderson, Baldersnaith, Hill”—some of them had occupied these rooms as Fifth Formers, and Irving had asked Mr. Barclay about them.

Louis Collingwood was captain of the school football team; Scarborough was captain of the school crew.

“Neither of them will give you any trouble,” said Barclay. “Scarborough used to be a cub, but he has developed very much in the last year or two, and now he and Collingwood are the best-liked fellows in the school. They have a proper sense of their responsibility as leaders of the school, and are more likely to help you than to make trouble. Morrill is their faithful follower, though a little harum-scarum at times. Westby—” the master hesitated over that name and looked at Irving with a measuring glance—“Westby is what you might call the school jester. He’s very popular with the boys—not equally so with all the masters. Personally I’m rather fond of him. He’s almost too quick-witted sometimes.”

That evening Barclay took the new master home to dine with him. Mrs. Barclay was as cordial and as kind as her husband; Irving began to feel more than satisfied with his surroundings.

“Pity you’re not married, Upton,” Barclay said, half jokingly. “You’d escape keeping dormitory if you were—which you’ll find the meanest of all possible jobs. And then if your wife’s the right kind—the boys have to be pretty decent to you in order to keep on her good side.”

Mrs. Barclay laughed. “I suppose that’s the only reason they’re pretty decent to you, William!—You’ll find it easy, Mr. Upton,—for the reason that they’re a pretty decent lot of boys.”

The next day at noon the old boys began to arrive. Irving was coming out of the auditorium, where he had been correcting the last set of examination papers, when a barge drew up before the study building and boys clutching hand-bags tumbled out and hurried into the building to greet the rector.

Irving stood for a few moments looking on with interest: other barges kept coming over the hill, interspersed with carriages, in which a few arrived more magnificently.

It occurred to Irving that perhaps he had better hasten to his dormitory in order to be on hand when his charges should begin to appear; he was just starting away when three boys arm in arm rushed out of the study building. They came prancing up to him, all smiles and twinkles; they were boys of seventeen or eighteen. They confronted him, blocking his path; and the one in the middle, a slim, straight fellow in a blue suit, said,—

“Hello, new kid! What name?”

A blush of embarrassment mounted in Irving’s cheeks; feeling it, he conceived it all the more advisable to assert his dignity. So he said without a smile, in a constrained voice,—

“I am not a new kid. I am a master.”

The three boys who had been beaming on him with good humor in their eyes stared blankly. Then the one in the middle, with a sudden whoop of laughter, swung the two others round and led them off at a run; and as they went, their delighted laughter floated back to Irving’s ears.

His cheeks were tingling, almost as if they had been slapped. He followed the boys at a distance; they moved towards the Upper School. His heart sank; what if they were in his dormitory?

He entered the building just as the last of the three was going up the Sixth Form dormitory stairs.

CHAPTER II

HE ACHIEVES A NAME FOR HIMSELF

At the foot of the staircase Irving hesitated until the sound of the voices and footsteps had ceased. The three boys had not seen him when he had entered; he was wondering whether he had better be courageous, go right up after them, and introduce himself,—just as if they had not caught him off his guard and put him into a ridiculous position,—or delay a little while in the hope that their memory of it would be less keen.

He decided that he had better be courageous. When he reached the top floor, he went into his room; he was feeling nervous over the prospect of confronting his charges, and he wished to be sure that his hair and his necktie looked right. While he was examining himself in the mirror, he heard a door open on the corridor and a boy call, “Lou! Did you know that Mr. Williams won’t be back this term?”

Farther down the corridor a voice answered, “No! What’s the matter?”

“Typhoid. Mr. Randolph told me.”

“Who’s taken his place?” It was another voice that asked this question.

“A new man—named Upton. I haven’t laid eyes on him yet.”

“Wouldn’t it be a joke—!” The speaker paused to laugh. “Suppose it should turn out to be the new kid!”

“‘I am not a new kid; I am a master.’”

The mimicry was so accurate that Irving winced and then flushed to the temples. In the laughter that it produced he closed his door quietly and sat down to think. He couldn’t be courageous now; he felt that he could not step out and face those fellows who were laughing at him. Of course they were the ones who ought to be embarrassed by his appearance, not he; but Irving felt they would lend one another support and brazen it through, and that he would be the one to exhibit weakness. He decided that he must wait and try to make himself known to each one of them separately—that only by such a beginning would he be likely to engage their respect.

It was the first time that he had been brought face to face with his pitiable diffidence. He was ashamed; he thought of how differently Lawrence would have met the situation—how much more directly he would have dealt with it. Irving resolved that hereafter he would not be afraid of any multitude of boys. But he refrained from making his presence known in the dormitory that afternoon.

At half past five o’clock he went downstairs to the rooms of Mr. Randolph, who had charge of the Upper School. Mr. Marcy, the Fifth Form dormitory master, and Mr. Wythe, the Fourth Form dormitory master, were also there. They were veterans, comparatively, and it was to meet them and benefit by what they could tell him that Irving had been invited. All three congratulated him on his good fortune in